


Who Will Make Him Welcome?

by Merixcil



Series: Advent Fics 2018 [17]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Married Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merixcil/pseuds/Merixcil
Summary: Éowyn adjusts to the cultural divide between Rohan and Gondor
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Advent Fics 2018 [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1824643
Kudos: 4





	Who Will Make Him Welcome?

**Author's Note:**

> I have never written Middle Earth fic before and trying to approach something like Tolkien's style was hard. Apologies if I've totally missed the mark.
> 
> I cannot recall any instances of Gondor or Rohan specific festivals being mentioned in the main books or wider reading material and objectively, knowing that the Gondorians and the Rohirim were once all under the same realm, I know that chances are any festivals they do have are pretty similar BUT the ones I have made up for this fic are not. Because reasons.
> 
> Also - poop to the idea that Éowyn gives up being a warrior once she gets married.

The shimmering splendour of Minas Tirith was not dulled by the onset of the winter snows. If anything, the city was all the more beautiful when the land decided to join it in its bridal robes of white. Stretching out below the city, the Pelennor fields, still rich with the blood of friend and foe alike, appeared to be at peace for the first time since the Lord of Mordor sent his armies out beyond his borders.

While Faramir played politics with local lords, trussed up in his Steward’s robes that he protested so fiercely yet loved so dearly when he thought no one else was looking, Éowyn spent her days trying to befriend the wives of the great men who passed their way and when that failed, learning the boundaries of this new realm from atop the walls of the city. She had been raised to believe that the firm stone standing of a city was immovable and resistant to change like the wooden halls and canvas tents of the Rohirim were not, but she marvelled to see the streets shift from day to day. Sometimes right before her eyes.

Atop the fourth tier, she watched as a brother and sister attempted to whittle down the wares of an apple seller. The boy doing all the talking, trying to strike a bargain, while the girl tried and failed to steal. She was reminded of her and Éomer, struggling to negotiate extra berries from the carts that crossed their paths in the summer, sure that it was their birthright but unable to articulate as much without surrendering their identity and getting themselves dragged from the market.

Éowyn smiled despite the longing that filled her heart. For home, for horses, for the wide open plains unspoiled by the memory of recent battle. Since she and Faramir were wed she had not found the time to return. Her place was here, in Gondor, at her love’s side. But it was hard to keep her thoughts from family with the Equinox approaching. Shooting starts had filled the sky just three nights ago, foreshadowing a clear night on which the stars could play out the stories of great heroes past and all of Rohan could join together to feel the spirits of their departed friends and family hanging in the chill winter air.

This year was to be all the more sorrowful. This was to be the first winter that passed without Théoden watching over her, the sting of his passing still bright and wicked in her chest. Always she had imagined her mother and father writ large across the night sky, but she knew now that this and every year it would be her uncle, who had given her a family when the fates saw fit to take hers from her, who would stand amongst the stars.

The children ran from the apple seller. Looking to the sun, sailing high through the clear white winter skies, Éowyn saw that the hour was nearly upon her when Jarin, a young squire who had survived the War for Gondor with his bravery intact, would be relieved of his guard duties. Most of the men in the Gondor army were still unable to conceive of a woman taking up arms, but having tasted the thrill of the battle field she had been unable to give it up. When people asked what she had done to help the war effort she knew with perfect certainty. She had killed the Witch King, sending him and his Nazghul to the dark country. There was no man between here and the undying lands who could say as much. But Jarin admired her, and with his golden curls and round cheeks he reminded her no small amount of Meriadoc, who had no doubt returned to his home country many moons ago. Together, the two of them would work on their sword skills for as long as could be permitted by the city armourer.

Faramir had promised that come the Spring Awakening, he would gift her with a sword of her own. Éowyn was starting to doubt that she could wait that long. The gift she truly wanted was to return to Rohan, if her time could be spared.

She resolved to ask him, after dinner that evening. When Faramir’s eyes started to drift away from the work of a steward and towards that of a husband.

“I cannot go for three weeks at least.” Faramir told her, breathless between kisses. “Though your absence would pain me, I can spare a dozen men to accompany you along the way. Give me three days make arrangements.”

“I have no need for a dozen men.” Éowyn laughed, as she fell back on the thick furs strewn across the Steward’s bed.

Faramir smiled down at her. “Still, my love, let me send them. And know that it would take more than a dozen impartial hearts to mirror the love I have for you.”

A journey that was no more than four days in the summer months took more than a week in the snow. A week of tasteless bread and fresh caught rabbit, of sleeping beneath canvas to keep out the wind. It reminded Éowyn of the camps they built on the march south to meet Sauron’s army, save for the silence outside.

The shape of Edoras rising through the mounting snow made Éowyn’s heart ache all the more desperately for her brother, for the smell of the fire in the great hall there, for the paths she had built herself through the city as a girl. When she breathed deep she could swear that the rich smell of the stables, so much deeper and more persistent than that of Minas Tirith, was already upon her. She had not realised that horses even had a scent till she first came to the brilliant white city, never having needed to step away from her steed for more than a few days at a time.

Éomer greeted her with open arms and an immediate call for a feast to be prepared in her honour.

“That will not be necessary, brother. Seeing you here is enough.” Éowyn smiled at him, and pulled him back for another embrace. Truthfully they had not done this much as children and the weight of him was unfamiliar in her arms. She decided that she must better learn the feel of him at her side before she inevitably must depart.

“Nonsense!” Éomer bellowed. “I had not hoped to see you until the snow cleared. To have you with us for the Equinox is more than I would have wished for. A feast must be prepared to properly mark the date.”

And so it was. A goat was slaughtered for roasting, and while Éomer’s halls filled with the smoke rising from the fires, the Horse Lords and Shield Maidens of Edoras came to kneel at Éowyn’s feet and hear her tales from Gondor.

“Your husband did not see fit to join you?” Éomer asked, once the well-wishers thinned and there was space for the two of them to talk without interruption.

“Of course he will come!” Éowyn told him. “He has his duties in Minas Tirith, but he will be here for the Equinox. He wishes to learn the ways of my people, and I his.”

Éomer’s face set into a grim smile. “He will be unprepared for the celebrations. I do hope the Rohirim will take pity on him should his tongue slip.”

Éowyn would have told her brother that her love could spin words into gold, that his mastery of the language of men was so complete that even a misstep would, under his hand, be poetry. But she knew already that the poetry of Edoras was different to that of Minas Tirith, which was different from that of Osgiliath. She loved all three, but even with her heart set on seeing the same beauty Faramir found in the written word, it had taken time for her ear to adjust to accommodate that which was new.

The Rohirim were proud, something that would never be true of Faramir. He would accept any failing with grace. “He will find friends here.” Éowyn assured Éomer. “Though it may take time, and I cannot say who among our number will like him best.”

“Then I shall eagerly await his arrival.” Éomer said. He clapped his hands and the women tending the fire moved to lift to goat to the table.

Lords and Maidens flocked from their independent revelry to the united passion of the feast. Éowyn took her place at Éomer’s right hand side and imagined what Faramir would look like standing next to her, his hand in hers. Finally and fully a part of her world.

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted as part of a multi chaptered 'advent fics' fic that I'm trying to split up. If you think you've read it before, you probably have
> 
> Comments on the previous posting of this fic (just ask if you want me to remove yours) include:
> 
> >melody1987: And know that it would take more than a dozen impartial hearts to mirror the love I have for you  
> >JFFHSGSKSLSJSJ YES! I’m so glad I requested this pair, you did a great job (as I knew you would!) and heck yeah to Éowyn still being the badass shieldmaiden. I’m gonna go now and think about Faramir watching her practice and all the ludicrously romantic lines that’ll come into his head while he does.  
> >>Merixcil: NGL I was pretty pleased with that line.....  
> >>YES to Farmir watching her practice. And to him being all like 'I will defend you!' when they go places but she winds up defending him. And him writing the songs that their grandkids will pass down about what an awesome badass she was


End file.
